Waking Up
by MavisK
Summary: Sherlock Holmes, the man with a mask over his feelings, opens up in this story about anxiety, love, and loneliness. He will face the crushing lonesomeness after John has moved on with Mary, and learn more about to be human than he ever has before. He will have to wake up. (Rated T for possible violence)
1. Chapter 1

Waking up. Waking up is the worse. My eyes peel themselves open just as the sun rises over the buildings and shines through the window. My brain is jumpstarted, filled with endless worries, thoughts, reactions, inquiries…it can't slow, it won't slow down, everything is too much and too fast and my mind can't even-

Then it stops.

I take a deep breath and I sit up, pushing my white sheet off my body and rolling over so I can sit. My feet touch the cold floor and I shiver violently. Damn heater must be broken again. I struggle to my feet, old bruises and scars straining at my muscles. I limp over to the window like an old man, taking my time and using the wall for support. The sun unveils dust floating around the room, landing in my hair and on my dark blue robe. I didn't mean to fall asleep with my robe on, I note, turning to face the bed. A cup of unfinished tea and an open book lie on my bedside table. Ah yes, I had been trying to calm down and read. I turn away again, not wanting to face the horror of last night.

London bustles below me: cabs full of employees rush to their jobs, homeless people sleep slumped against buildings, while the rich pass all this by, their noses turned up. Shop owners turn their signs, calling out greetings to their neighbors and adverts to their buyers. My stomach starts to churn for no reason. I shuffle back to the bedside and leaning over, pick up the bottle of pills that fell the other night when my hand went limp from sleep. Even after I took the correct dosage, I kept holding them; my Hail Mary.

I unscrew the cap and pop one in, almost out of habit rather than need. My palms are sweaty and my chest throbs anxiously. I swallow down the pill with the last bit of cold tea, the taste bitter and uninviting to my tongue. Before I can sit back down again, the door flies open, slamming against the back of the wall with a loud bang, startling me.

"_Sherlock!" _John looks even more pissed than usual, standing there in his freshly laundered tan sweater and slightly ripped jeans- probably due to the alley cat beside him and Mary's house. His hair is smoothed perfectly (thin comb, approximately 4") and his face has been freshly washed (water and strawberry Dove soap by the smell of it). "What on _earth _happened last night?!"

"Nothing of your importance I can guess if you weren't invited," I say in a clipped tone.

"Mrs. Hudson said she had to wrap up at least four wounds on your legs and two on your stomach!"

"Glad we have those numbers down," I say sarcastically, keeping my eyes out the window again. The homeless man across the street is awake now, nibbling on a hot dog and holding up his "anything helps" sign.

"This can't keep happening," he says, "You need to take me or someone along with you from now on." I whirl around to face him.

"Oh John, don't be so entirely stupid," I snap, "How am I supposed to have a _special buddy _come along on every case when you and Mary won't even answer your door, Lestrade is pretending he understands his job and therefore spending all hours at it, and Molly, oh don't even get me going on about Molly with her stupid wedding plans because apparently that's _all _that "people" care about!" My robe snaps behind me as I stride out the door and down the hall.

"I said not to tell!" I bellow at Mrs. Hudson, who is trying to tidy up the kitchen.

"Oh!" she shrieks, retreating from the room. John has followed me in and assumes his position of glaring at me, arms crossed tightly over his stupid sweater.

"Can you just be sensible Sherlock?" he cries, "You're out there all alone, getting attacked by kidnappers and murderers and who knows what else and you don't even have another person to try and protect you!"

"If I cared what you thought, I would've knocked harder on your door last night," I spat.

"What are you talking about?" He does that thing where he glances to the side, then back at me. I hate that thing. He always does it just before someone shares with him a piece of information he was too stupid to see before. Something that will make him change his mind completely.

"I came to your door because I was being chased," I say, as casually and irritably as I can. "It was 10 in the evening."

"I was _asleep_."

"_So _domesticated!" I growl, turning away to pour myself more tea. The water sloshes and hits my hand, burning the skin slightly. I curse under my breath.

"I am leaving," John says quietly, breaking the silence. "Call me if you need anything." I almost say no but then hold back, not wanting to seem like a child. As soon as the door closes, I slam my teacup down with a shattering crash. Shards of flower printed clay pieces fall off the counter, a few cutting against my hand, the hot tea stinging it.

I cry out, grabbing my bleeding hand with my clean one, trying to stop the flow. It's only a few cuts but I apply some paper towel, ignoring the broken mug and dripping tea. I stand by the bay window, holding it tight, tears stinging at my eyes. I hate crying. It's the most human thing I've ever done and it makes me feel absolutely disgusting. Like I can break as easily as a mug.

"Oh Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson is back upstairs, staring at the mess of the mug. She starts to wipe the tea with her freshly laundered apron, avoiding the shards of clay with a steady hand.

"You ought to stop shouting so much," she says, pulling the wastebasket over to the counter and starting to push the pieces into it. I stare blankly at her for a moment, then turn back to the window, grabbing my violin and starting a random tune.

"Sherlock," I think I imagine it at a first, but John is back, standing in the doorway, hands in his pockets. "I wanted to invite you to dinner."

"To what?"

"Dinner. With Mary and I. Nothing fancy, just a night at our house." It sounds like the worst idea I've ever heard of.

"You're afraid I'm lonely," I sneer, setting down my violin and stepping towards him. He stares at me. I hate that stare.

"Yes," he says, clearing his throat. "We want to have you over for dinner. Come at 6:00. If you want." He turns back around, nodding to Mrs. Hudson then hurrying down the stairs.

"No weapons!" he shouts when he reaches the bottom. He's out the door before I can object. I turn back to the window, listening to Mrs. Hudson's footsteps in the kitchen as she finishes cleaning up. A night with John and Mary. Talking, eating, _socializing. _They want me to be around people, to not spend time alone being a mess and going out at night to fight people. God, what did Mrs. Hudson tell them?

"You're going to go aren't you?" Mrs. Hudson is at the doorway. _Yes I am,_ I think.

"Of course not," I say.

A/N

That's the first chapter! I hope you liked it :)


	2. Chapter 2

It's 5:30. I check my watch out of habit and remember I am supposed to be somewhere in thirty minutes. With a heavy sigh, I pull off my blue robe and shirt. I pull on one of my clean purple ones, inhaling the soft scent of detergent and Mrs. Hudson's perfume. She always does my laundry. I button it up, my hands shaking as I do so. Why am I anxious? I shouldn't be anxious about seeing John and Mary.

I change pants, pulling on a pair of dark black dress pants and fitting a jacket over the collared shirt. I stand in front of the mirror for a moment, running my hands through my curly hair and biting at my chapped lips. I check my watch. 5:37. I slip on a pair of black shoes and apply a little cologne. I decide I don't like dressing like a normal person.

Rain is falling outside, a much different weather from this morning's sunshine. London weather of course; pounding water against the sidewalks and buildings with no avail for hours. I love it.

0o0

I feel like I'm going to puke on the cab ride to their house. My stomach churns, mocking the anxiety that flows through my body. I grip the dish of salad that Mrs. Hudson made me take on my way out. I hate salad. The cab splashes through puddles as the rain drizzles against the windows incessantly, hitting the glass like it wants to break it.

"Here you are," says the cab driver as the car screeches to a stop. I pay him and hurry out of the car, pulling up my coat collar so I can block at least a little of the rain water hurtling down at me. Their quaint little house stands tall amidst the rain, smoke rising from the small chimney, every little flower and bush perfectly trimmed. I hurry up the walk, keeping a hand on my head to protect my hair, the other wrapped around the plastic salad bowl. I reach the door and knock as loudly as I can, keeping dry under the awning.

"Sherlock!" Mary opens the door, surprise etched across her face. "We weren't sure you were coming!" She smiles, pink lipstick stretching across her face, her perfume floating in the air.

"I brought this," I say, handing her the bowl.

"Thank you, it looks delicious," she says, peering through the plastic wrap. She gestures me in and I follow, through the corridor of a place I've only been to a few times. I glance around the room, taking in the scent of whole wheat pasta, marinara sauce and French bread. A candle gives off a vanilla scent somewhere nearby.

"We're having spaghetti," she says, leading me through the dining room and into the kitchen. "But you probably already knew that." She grins knowingly. John is in the kitchen, cutting bread with a freshly sharpened knife.

"Ah there you are," he says, "Grab a plate, it's serve yourself." I set the salad down and pull off the wrapping, biting my lip anxiously. I take a plate up and pile on spaghetti and bread, with only a few pieces of lettuce so I don't seem odd. I follow John to the dining room and take a seat across from him, next to Mary. The silence is deafening as we eat, only the sounds of chewing and forks clinking filling the empty space.

"So, got any cases I can join you for?" The question comes from John, and I see Mary smile encouragingly at him.

"No," I clear my throat, "Not right now anyway. Waiting for a call from Lestrade, really." John nods and continues eating. The evening goes on like that, small conversations, stupid topics. I focus all my energy on not making nasty remarks or deductions. Their house is too clean, their flowers too nice. They both smell like soap and perfume, their hair parted perfectly. What happened to the days of sweat and blood, guns and maniacs, John and I together as a team? He can't be enjoying this domestication. Yet they both their time looking at me like I'm the unlucky one. They can tell something is wrong. I can see their stupid faces now, sitting together in bed and discussing how to _fix _me.

"I should be going," I say abruptly as we settle into the living room. "Mrs. Hudson wanted help…dusting."

"You never dust," says John, chuckling nervously. I see Mary nudge his knee, as if to say _let him go. _

"Well I'll see you then," I say, standing up and grabbing my coat. John nods.

"Bye Sherlock," Mary stands and gives me the faintest of hugs. I'm tempted to push her off slightly. Finally I escape, out the door and into a cab, driving through the rain once again. The torture is over.

0o0

I spend the night shooting my gun in my bedroom, lying on my bed in a plain white t-shirt and plaid pants, making holes in the cream colored wall. Mrs. Hudson doesn't bother to check on me and none of the neighbors dare say a thing, even though it's 3 in the morning and I've been at it for hours. I run out of bullets by about 3:15 and move on to slamming my head against the wall.

_Lonely, lonely, lonely…_my mind screams.

_I'm not lonely, I am alone, _I argue,_ there's a difference. _

_But you have no friends anymore. They've moved on without you and you're still here, solving stupid cases like an idiot. You are boring and constantly self-destructive. _

So why don't I don't I self-destruct? Why don't I throw myself off a roof for real this time? I don't think anyone would really miss me, since all they're trying to do is fix the unfixable mind I call my own. And the only way John and Mary see me now is as some lost soul, without companions or want of friends.

I fall asleep in tears, thinking this over and over again.

0o0

My eyes still sting from crying the next morning.

I make my own tea, using the mug that John gave to me as a Christmas gift. I told him I wouldn't use it. He just smiled and nodded. The sun falls through the window again today as I stand looking outside. People are milling about, just as normal. Doesn't it ever change?

The phone rings.

"Lestrade," I answer with a sigh of relief. "What do you have for me?"

"One man, dangling from a skyscraper, bound in rope. No way it can be suicide."

"Perfect."

0o0

The skyscraper isn't the biggest, but the crowds around it are huge. I can see the skinny figure, hanging from the very top with about a foot of rope between him and the pole he hangs from.

"There's no blood," says Lestrade, leading me towards the building as he runs a hand through his buzz cut hair, dropping microscopic pieces of dandruff onto the ground. He smells like aftershave and cologne, which I realize is due to the appearance of Donovan. "It's just him, hanging there, dead. We were gonna pull him down and take him to the hospital, but he must've been dead for hours; he's cold."

"Was there any sign of tension around the stomach?" I ask quickly, rushing past crowds of people and into the elevator.

"That's what I don't understand," he says, "He could've been dropped so hard by the rope that it cut off his air, but it's round his waist and there's no redness on his skin or any sign of bruising." I press my fingers to my temples, trying to think.

"I'll have to see him up close," I say, "Is there any way you can get him down?" Lestrade nods and mumbles into his radio, "Bring him down." It doesn't take long to reach the top, and when we do, they're already pulling the body up, and laying him down on top of a clean white sheet.

"Interesting," I mumble. I lean down and lift up the man's shirts slightly, checking for any cuts or scarring. Smoky smell coming off him, probably from a wood stove. His hair is long, falling to his shoulders. His eyes, wide open in shock, bloodshot with peeling skin around his eyebrows. He's freezing, his lips blue and hands so stiff I could snap off his finger.

"A thawed body," I say, standing back up. "He didn't die here; he was frozen to death then hung there."

"But why would someone do that?" asks Lestrade, scratching at his neck where an itchy wool scarf is wrapped around.

"They're trying to tell us something," I say, stepping back into the elevator. "I'll call you later. Get that body to the morgue and have Molly heat it up." I press the button and shoot down. I can feel my heart fluttering with the new case whirring in my brain. I can finally focus on something other than the people around me. It's going to be a good day.

A/N

Thanks for reading! I really tried to make this end a happy bit, because he is going to go through a lot and why not have a little joy of a case? Feels like something Sherlock would really revel in. Hope you liked it :) Check out my Tumblr at rosetyler15 or look up my blog "The Fault in Our Lives."


	3. Chapter 3

The flat is quiet when I return, nothing disturbed, not even the brain that's been rotting in the sink for ages. Newspapers are scattered all over the floor, collecting dust along with the countless objects I have thrown in my own anxiety or during a hectic case. Today I am a flurry of excitement, throwing off my coat and beginning to pin up all sorts of paper clippings and pictures to the wall. I attach a few suspects; ones I've known are involved with ice or freezing bodies, including Molly herself. Not a suspect so much but someone to ask.

I run to my laptop, immediately searching for any sort of morgue that freezes bodies or places where they bury them in the snow specifically. _Nothing. _They all burn them or bury them in dirt. I grab my coat again, heading for the morgue.

0o0

"It's thawed a little," says Molly, bringing out the body on a cart, covered by a bag. She glances at me nervously before zipping it open halfway.

"Right," I mutter, leaning down and pulling out my microscope. The body looks almost the same as before, except for the visible change in the blueness on his skin, now bright red. I mutter to myself, searching my brain, anywhere in London where he could have come from.

"His name is George Mason," says Molly, "If that helps." I stare at her for a moment.

"Yes it does," I say, whipping out my mobile and tapping in his name online. I go through the images of many Georges, none of them matching up to this pale long haired- wait. There he is. I click on his blog's name and it pops up, showing a black and white theme with a picture of him off the side. I begin to read one of the articles:

_Global Warming, Essay #43  
>So we know all the science facts, but what is left? Let's focus deeper on the issues at hand involving global warming and the people who don't believe in it. <em>

My brain lights like a fuse as I realize what could have happened. He was a global warming rights activist. Started pissing on people who didn't believe his theories. They pissed right back, by freezing him to make a point and hanging him from a building.

"Could that really happen?" asks Molly after I explain it to her.

"It's possible, I've heard of cases like these before," I say, "The opposite happened in Chicago, they burned a man alive then laid his body in the middle of the street."

"That's awful," she cries.

"So is the state of your breath," I snap, words falling out of my mouth like I don't mean them. "Eat a mint." I don't mean to be mean, but somehow every time I observe something I just have to spit it out. I used to not care so much but now I don't want to hurt people. Stupid John, making me so human. I leave the morgue quickly, out the doors and into the bright hallway.

0o0

It's been an okay day. I'm so close to solving the case but fatigue is getting the best of me and I can't keep my eyes on the computer screen any longer. Mrs. Hudson comes upstairs in her nightie and tells me off for being up so late, but brews me tea anyway. I drink it as I sit by the window in my room, trying to relax my mind that's begging to keep working on the case. No. I have to calm down. I have to sleep or tomorrow will be full of nothing but anxiety. When I'm tired, I'm more emotional.

I climb into bed after changing into a pair of dark purple pajamas, the smell of cigarette smoke floating up from the clothes. I never washed them since I quit smoking.

Now that I think of it, a cigarette sounds really good right now. I reach for the shoebox under my bed and pull it out, hoping for a nicotine patch to ease the addiction. Dammit. Ran out.

0o0

The next morning is heavenly. After the shock of daily anxiety, my mind running haywire, I pull out a fresh cigarette- my seventh one since last night- and light it up, still lying in bed, turned towards the door. Then I hear someone move.

"Good morning," her voice lilts across the room like a song, a mysterious and secretive one that you can't quite figure out the name to. She's smiling at me, her body perched on a red chair in the corner, her arms forward, her fingers clasped together. She isn't wearing anything special or fancy like she does usually; just a black long sleeve and black leggings, small boots zipped up over her ankles. Her hair is down, curled around her sharp chin, falling in long endless waves.

"Did you sleep well?" she asks, standing up. She walks over to the hole covered wall, running her hand across the bullet marks. "You certainly tore this up."

"Irene," I say groggily, "You…you said you couldn't come back." She smiles again.

"That was before I killed over thirty people that were after me," she says, "But that's boring. Let's talk about you." She sits on the edge of the bed, her hand touching mine. "You're sick." She actually looks concerned, the seductive smirk gone from her face, her deep grey eyes searching me for some sort of response.

"I'm not," I say, pushing the blankets off me. I stand up, dragging my hand away from her and straightening out my rumpled t-shirt.

"You're lonely," she says, "You're pushing your friends away, even your brother has stopped trying to engage you because you just don't want to be bothered. That's why I'm here. I'm the only person who isn't trying to fix you."

"How do you know all that?"

"So you aren't denying it." She pauses. "Wild guess."

"And why aren't you trying to fix me?"

"Because I like you the way you are," she says, "A friendless highly-functioning sociopath with anxiety and depression." I bite my lip and it starts to bleed. She stands up and grabs my gun.

"I'll be taking this," she says, turning it over in her hands. "You're out of bullets anyway aren't you?" I don't bother to nod.

"Why are you here?" I ask.

"I told you, didn't I?" she says, "You're sick. So I'll play nurse." She looks at the cigarette in my hand and sighs. "Really?"

"You can't stay here," I snap, gaining some of my sense back. I'm more awake now, the nicotine hitting me like a slap in the face. "Get out."

"So demanding," she says, "I'm only here to help you."

"I don't need help."

"You have problems."

"_My _problems!" I'm shouting now. I can feel the heat of my anger building up in my chest, forcing nerves forward and words out of my mouth. What will happen if she's here? What will John say? Are there still people after her?

"Stop shouting," she says, getting to her feet. "We both know you need help but god, if you aren't willing to accept it then forget me." She turns to the window and jumps before I can say a word. But I know what she's doing.

_I know she'll be back. _


	4. Chapter 4

"You're _smoking?"_ John is standing over me, his arms crossed, a scarf slung around his neck. He smells like a deli sandwich and some sort of lavender lotion. His shoes are worn down, probably trying to lose weight by walking to work. His hair is messy, probably from a long day. His clothes are rumpled, probably ironed yesterday but now a mess from putting them on in a hurry.

"Good observing John," I say, "You could take my job." I take a long drag from the cigarette, my head bent slightly to let the smoke float out the window. I'm still in my robe, the collar of my gray shirt sticking up slightly. It's nearly six in the evening.

"God, this place is a mess," says John, putting a hand to his forehead. He's right but I don't care. I like dust. "You ought to help me clean," he adds.

"You don't live here last time I checked," I say in a clipped tone. He glares at me. I don't bother to meet his eyes for more than a second.

"I try to get him to clean, I really do," says Mrs. Hudson, scurrying into the room like a mouse that smells of perfume. I sigh and stare back out the window, watching the little flakes of snow press themselves against the open glass and melt. A fire roars inside, heating the room and making me feel comforted. I hate it. I need something dangerous to happen.

Like the devil himself heard me, my phone chimes. I pull it out of my pocket, ignoring John's groans and mumbles as he picks up some newspapers. It's a text, from some odd number I don't recognize. It says: **Dinner? 379 Anthony Street. –IA. **

Irene. She's dangerous enough.

"I have to go," I say, hopping off the windowsill and hurrying towards my room.

"Where?" asks John, his tone sharp but obviously curious. I don't answer, but close the door and quickly change into a white collared shirt and black pants. I run my hands through my hair, trying to make it look as if I don't care if I'm meeting a beautiful woman for dinner. I open the door again but John has retreated to the kitchen; probably trying to scrub the black charcoal off the stove or something.

I dab a little cologne on from the bathroom, then put on my coat, tucking my cigarettes in the pocket. I'll need them later.

"Where are you going?" John stops me before I reach the stairs, his hand clenched around my arm.

"To retrieve my gun."

0o0

The cab pulls up to an extremely posh brick house, driving up the cement ground to the front door where snow is already falling steadily onto the awning. Trimmed hedges surround the car, with a frozen fountain in the middle of the driveway circle. I leave my money with the driver and step out into the cold, turning up my coat collar and ruffling my hair once again. I walk up to the door and lay a hand on the knocker; a lion with sharp teeth and a huge mane just waiting for me to enter this majestic home. I knock loudly, pounding the golden animal against the white door.

"Sherlock Holmes," the door opens to reveal a short woman in maid's clothes, "Right this way." She leads me down the huge corridor, past marble stairs and large paintings, right through the warm kitchen and into the dining room. Pillars border the gold crested table, topped with more food than even the largest man in the world could consume. Bay windows overlook a scenic garden, filled with different colored flowers that are also cut and put in vases in the room. Despite all the splendor, the only thing I can keep my eyes on longer than a second, is the woman leaning against the fireplace.

Her hair is swept up with dangling curls, her thin body pulled into a black dress with matching heels adoring her feet. She smiles, lipstick perfect across her pink skin. Her nails are painted a dark black and her eye shadow is rich brown. She smells of sweet perfume that reminds of me every beautiful flower I've ever smelt.

"Sherlock," she gestures to the table. I sit, handing my coat to the maid.

"Did you know I would come?" I ask, surveying the table more closely. Roasted ham, mashed potatoes, gravy, sweet rolls with butter, salad and a pot of tomato soup. However, neither of us eats, as if we're more interested in each other than we could be in anything else.

"I honestly wasn't sure," she says. "You are stubborn sometimes." There's a long pause, as we stare each other down.

"You're complicated," I answer a moment later, casually picking up a roll and tossing it up and down in my hand.

"Let's talk about you," she says, "God, where to start? You're so lonely. Well you've always been lonely but you were much better before that Mary came along."

"Have you been stalking me or something?"

"Maybe," she says, her voice almost a whisper. I take a bite of the roll as she begins to pour some wine into a large glass.

"I don't want your help," I say. I take the glass as she hands it to me. "I'm doing better."

"You're smoking," she says.

"_Why _is that such a big deal?" I practically hiss.

"You're a danger to yourself," she says, her voice still calm. She stands up slowly and makes her way over, her heels clicking across the floor. Her hand slips into mine easily, her eyes full of tears. I've never seen her this way; so weakened, almost scared. I notice things I didn't before, like the light scars coated with skin colored makeup, or her chipped nails, tried in vain to sand down and make beautiful again.

She really did work hard to make her way back to me.

Neither of us says a word for the rest of the meal. We silently eat and drink, me itching to take a cigarette out but trying to push away the need. I want to respect this evening. We move into a lush living room after dinner, where a tray of tea and coffee sits, waiting to be poured and served. She settles herself by the fireplace in a red velvet chair. I choose the sofa.

"So what's your plan here?" I ask.

"I want to help," she says, "I could move in with you, be like a therapist. Try to get you back to being around people. You're so close to losing it; I can tell."

"I am _not._"

"You'll deny it for so long. But I know you'll let me in." The anxiety is bubbling in my stomach, forcing a feeling of bile in my throat. I feel my heart rate speed up like the vibration of my violin, throbbing against my chest. My hands sweat, my brain freezes. She knows exactly what's wrong with me. I thought she was just pretending before, but there's nothing fake in her worried eyes.

"What happened that night?" she asks, "You came home limping. You went to bed. John found you in the morning, all bruises and cuts." It feels like someone is wrapping their hands around my neck, forcing the words to squeeze themselves out.

"I was just on a case," I say quietly, "I was attacked by someone. Someone that's at the root of every piece of anxiety and depression inside of me…Mycroft knows him…he told me to stay away but I knew I couldn't. I thought the stories were just excuses to keep me from him, to keep me _safe._"

"Who was it?" she asks, fear etched across her face.

"My brother."


	5. Chapter 5

_Flashback_

_I'm running. I'm actually laughing at something people laugh at. There's a smile hitting my sunlit face, pushing happiness out of me and towards the world. _

"_Can't catch me!" he yells, like a schoolchild running from his mate. We are sort of mates I guess. He's always been there, all smiles and brown hair, his cheeks always a little red no matter what he's feeling. He waves at me from the top of the playground, his pale hands gripping the colored metal of the climbing gym. _

"_I'm coming!" I cry, "Wait a second!" I run across the mulch, my tattered shoes pressing into the earth with soft pats. I climb up the ladder and pull myself up so I can grab his leg, just as he tries to sprint away. _

"_Got you!" I yell, standing up as I switch my hand to his shirt sleeve. A red shirt, with a peanut butter stain from lunch. He laughs, never angry, his eyebrows flying up to his messy hair, freckles dancing across his cheeks. He says something and it's the last thing I remember. _

"_Now try and catch me."_

0o0

I take a long drink of tea, letting it scald my tongue and throat. Irene is just staring at me with her hand around the arm of the chair, her eyes wide. Why did I tell her? What did she do to make me say something I can't tell anyone? She could tell Mycroft, or Molly…even worse; she could tell John.

"Don't tell anyone," I blurt out, "No one can know I saw him."

"Why did he hurt you?" she's biting her lip now, anxiety written all over her face.

"He's insane," I say, "Or could be." I set down my tea and stand, pacing in front of the fireplace for a moment. "I finally tracked him down, through the internet and my homeless network. He was in Cardiff, working at some factory. I caught him coming out and told him my name…" I take a deep breath before going on. "He led me away from the building, like he wanted to tell me something, or hug me, or…but he didn't. He tried to kill me. He punched me…he called me…horrible things…he kept saying-" I can feel tears gathering- "…he kept saying it was my fault." I claw at my eyes angrily, trying to keep the sobbing at bay.

"Oh Sherlock." Irene is at my side, her arms wrapping around me like…oh. It's a hug. It's not completely awful.She smells like honey and orange. She pulls away after a moment, her lips turned in a sad smile.

"I don't want sympathy," I say gruffly, "It doesn't even matter. He's not a brother. Brothers don't vanish for twelve years then try to kill you when you find them."

"He did though," she says, "You should really talk to Mycroft."

"_No!"_ I shout, my voice rising without me meaning to. "Sorry." I grab my coat off its hanger by the fireplace, pulling it over my shoulders. "I should go." She doesn't object but does look sad.

"What happened to you?" I say abruptly, "You used to be so…confident. Now you look like you care too much about everything."

"I don't know," she says absentmindedly, her eyes trailing away from me to the fire. "Maybe I fell in love with the way humans are."

0o0

I lay down on my freshly made bed, the smell of detergent rising up from it. Mrs. Hudson must've done laundry. The entire flat is too clean from John's freak out, everything polished or dusted in some way. Every room smells like cleaner. I'm still in my dinner clothes but my coat lies on the floor with my shoes on top of it. Snow is still falling steadily outside the window and the flat is quiet. I hear sirens in the distance. Sometimes I would call Lestrade when I'd hear sirens, to see if he needed my help. Now I know he doesn't. He's too confident, too smart. Like everything I ever did has fed into him and let him figure out things on his own. He even solved the global warming case before I did, as I found out in a text a few days ago.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Damn crying. I fall asleep curled in a ball, my back shaking from the tears even I can't stop.

0o0

Morning is worse than ever. It takes longer than usual to get past the ache in my stomach and frenzy in my mind. I go into the kitchen and make a cup of tea, adding a biscuit to the side just so Mrs. Hudson doesn't bother me about starving. It tastes dry and stale, and I start to wonder if I could make John angry enough to buy me groceries. Problem is I don't even know what I did to make him clean so damn much.

I shuffle across the cold floor to my chair where my violin sits, leaning against the cushion. I move it but don't play; just set it down beside me where I can keep it safe. I wonder how long it will take Irene to tell Mycroft. She obviously will. I could tell by everything she did. The way she moved her hands, or the way she avoided promising to keep it a secret. It doesn't matter. I couldn't keep it under wraps forever.

My phone rings.

"Hello?"

"Brother, dear."

"What do you want Mycroft?"

"Oh it's not Mycroft." The shock of his voice finally resonates and I realize the Scottish accent is so different from my other brother's. I open my mouth to say something but he cuts across me.

"You better not have told anyone about our little meeting."

"That's my choice," I say with gritted teeth, my hand clenched so tight around the phone I fear it will break. "You attacked me."

"I had good reason," he hisses, "I'm not your fucking brother."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh I know," he says, "I know we were born two years apart with the same mother. That makes me a lot of things but _never…_will I be your brother Sherlock Holmes."

_Click. _

He's gone. Faster than he arrived. I stare at my phone, trying to find the number again but it's somehow erased itself. A shuddering breath goes through my lungs and for once, I don't know what to do.

God knows if I ever will again.

0o0

A/N

Sorry for the shorter chapter, but I have to figure out a plan for the rest of the story! I want to say thanks so much for all the reviews and followers, I absolutely love all the support and it's literally what's keeping this story going. If you liked/hated this chapter, _please _review and tell me all your thoughts, opinions, fears and ideas! And if you want, check out my tumblr: rosetyler15

Thank you so much 3


	6. Chapter 6

My hands won't stop trembling. I'm knocking on his door, my eyes nearly stinging with tears. I want to hurt something but there's no one here to hurt but myself. I give myself a good slap and I know red is spreading across my cheek fast.

"Sherlock," John is at the door, his face contorted in concern. "Your face…" He trails off.

"Can I talk to you…alone?"

"Yeah, of course," he opens the door a fraction more, "Mary's not here…if that's what you mean. She's at work." I nod, brushing past him and going into the living room.

"I didn't want to tell you about this," I say, "But I don't know what to do." Tears cling at my eyes. "I don't…" I take a deep breath. "Don't tell Mycroft but that night…when I came home all bruised up; that wasn't just another case. It was someone I shouldn't have even been seeing…my brother."

"You have another one?" His words come sharp and quick, like the military man he is. "Another brother?"

"Y-yes."

"Why can't you see him?"

"Mycroft says he's dangerous or something." My heart is beating fast. For some reason I wish Irene was here. "And he was right. He attacked me."

"Oh god Sherlock," he rubs his eyes hard, like he's too surprised to speak.

"Oh come on John," I say, trying to crack a smile. "He's _my_ brother; if he hugged me you wouldn't believe it." He laughs a little, his eyes lighting up like they always do. God, I wish we could have those old times; I've missed him more than I knew. Not that I would ever admit it.

"So what do you need me for?" he asks. "Are you going after him? Not that you should."

"No, not yet," I say, "I have to get more info on him." I feel relieved to finally be able to give someone the crucial info, not the emotional things. "I only found his location and if he knows I'm trying to find him, he'll have moved by now. We need to figure out what his job is, what he's exactly doing in London."

"And if he's not in London anymore?"

"We'll go find him elsewhere." I see the weight of distance fall on John's shoulders; his eyes glancing away as he remembers Mary and the coming baby.

"Unless you have to stay here," I add, my voice cracking. God dammit.

"No," he says quickly, "No, if this is what you need, then screw it, let's do it. Let's find your brother."

"You mean it?"

"Of course," he says quickly. I give him a small smile as I feel the rush of adrenaline go through my bones. Finally, some sort of case with John. Somehow despite the unavoidable danger that we're heading into…I feel calm.

0o0

John comes back to the flat with me and we both stay up the rest of the night trying to find my brother online. I hack into websites, pull information from any fake accounts he's ever had, and even look through his distant relative's information. My distant relatives.

"Have you thought about asking your parents?" John is sitting in his chair, laptop sitting on the edge of it as he types in some codes.

"That's ridiculous," I say, "They pretend he doesn't exist. It's been twelve years."

"They must've let something slip," he says, "Was there ever a time you were suspicious of somewhere they were traveling?" I rack my brain but come up with nothing, forcing me back to the computer screen.

"Who else knows?" His questions should bother me but I don't mind. It's John after all.

"Um…" I want to tell him about Irene but I'm afraid he'll lose it. "No one." A text chimes in my pocket.

Irene: _Thank you. _  
>Me: <em>For what?<br>_Her: _Telling John. He deserves to know.  
><em>Me: _Stop spying. _

I turn back to the computer once again. It takes hours to uncover any sort of information about him, but finally, I trace his movements.

"John come here," I point to the computer screen, "I took notes. He spent most of this year in factories, but moving companies and jobs relatively often. However, he's put down as Fiela Holes, at a homeless shelter downtown, which is almost an anagram for Alfie Holmes.

"How do you know its him though? It could just be a coincidence."

"Because it's the shelter where my parents volunteer."

0o0

The smell of rich soup and warm bread fills me up as we enter the shelter, John right behind me as the caretaker leads us through the kitchen. A chubby man with a huge bowl of pasta gives me a condescending look and I recognize him as someone I put in jail four years ago. Lovely.

"Who are you looking for then?" asks the caretaker as soon as we reach the main room. I look around at the crowd of people, most of them chattering to one and other, but some just tucked into their sleeping bags, sipping lukewarm soup and nibbling day old bread.

"Fiela Holes," I say.

"Fiela? Oh yeah, he left."

"Do you know where he might have gone?" asks John.

"No sorry," says the caretaker, "He only left a few belongings…you family?" John almost says no but I cut across.

"Yes," I say, "John Holes, cousin." The caretaker nods and gestures for us to follow him.

"That's illegal," hisses John under his breath to me. "You can't just take his stuff."

"You are so domesticated," I snarl, feeling a little anxiety latch itself onto me. He's put the fear of arrest back into me. I try to ignore it. The caretaker leads us into a back office where shelves are piled high with bags left behind, ripped sleeping bags, and other old junk.

"Here he is," he hands me a bag with a tag on it, labeled: FH.

"Thank you." The caretaker leaves us alone, shutting the door to the dingy room. I rip open the bag and pour its contents onto the dusty floor, unearthing all kinds of smells. A pack of cigarettes, a cracked compass, and an old gardening glove.

"Garbage," says John.

"Do you not remember how to investigate at _all?_" God, it's going to be hard getting him back into this job. I whip out my microscope and begin by inspecting the compass for fingerprints. John gives a little sigh and picks up the cigarettes, turning them over in his hand.

"They look old," he says, "Unsmoked though."

"Mm," I nod, "The compass was bought approximately 10 days ago, but left here on purpose, never on accident. This is an expensive brand, but it was bought in passing, like he has enough money that he doesn't care what happens to it. There are scratch marks everywhere, see?"

"Maybe he dropped it."

"Then he wasn't being careful. If he cared about it, he would shine it, clean it…" I tuck it into my pocket, the snatch up the cigarettes from John. I light one quickly with the matches in my pocket and stick in between my lips. "Let's go." I bring the glove along, just in case. John glares at me the rest of the way out, furious at my smoking habits.

0o0

I meet one of my homeless network and exchange the box of ciggs for some information. John stays in the cab while I speak to the woman.

"He was 'ere," she says, "Tried to bargain wiff me. I told 'im, nah. Wanted to give me a damn compass for plane ticket money."

"This compass?" I hold out the small broken item.

"Well I'll be darned," she says, "That there's exactly it."

"Do you know if he ever got his money?"

"Nah," she says, "Haven't seen 'im for days now."

"Thank you." I rush out the alley and back into the cab, the compass still in hand. "He may have flown somewhere," I tell John.

"Damn…"

"I'm going to need someone's help," I say, "Someone almost as smart as me." John glares again but asks who.

"Irene."

0o0

A/N

Thanks for reading! Sorry for the delay on this chapter. School just started up again and I wasn't on my laptop much over the weekend. Leave your opinion on the story in the reviews, please! I want to know what YOU think!


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